


don't i sound stupid

by glimmeryoongs



Category: No Fandom
Genre: Bad Poetry, Poetry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-03
Updated: 2021-02-04
Packaged: 2021-03-14 18:14:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29175510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glimmeryoongs/pseuds/glimmeryoongs
Summary: bad bad bad poetry by an emotionally overwhelmed fucker (me!).





	1. the woman in my reflection

**Author's Note:**

> i cry a lot and need an outlet for those silent tears. so yeah. hi im sammi...i write during my mental breakdowns

mother's a taker.

Always Open, always sucking in, always stuck in the past few minutes of an event, always out-of-touch with my emotions. Wants to drag everything with her. Wants to hold every memory, tuck it deep within, and cross _my_ boundaries and plant it deep in _my_ backyard.

  
  
mother never likes to learn. mother dives in and takes me by the throat, cuts in small diagonal lines and makes the process look clean. She says _don't worry, it's only for a day. can't fucking believe you'd despise your mother like this._ Doesn't realize that I can't swim and I want free. I want Out. I need my own space to breathe. How must I breathe when all my life I've been sharing the same space with someone the moment I was out the womb. 

  
A cry to Time, to whoever's playing this cruel game: _Please send me to college, send me away, send me to a country that has motherly figures who don't look at me like I'm some sort of cheap property to plant stupid flowers on and make useful. People who nurture and don't hate me for making deals with misery. Send me to those who don't define my worth for me. I am full of worth without her._

  
  
i want to _be._


	2. kare-kare

wednesday evenings were always uneventful. don't know if it's because i'm used to all the eggshells (be careful walking on them...please tip-toe) in my father's voice or the passive-aggressively mixing of stew my mother does. she talks sometimes, animatedly, to the air ghosts in front of her. doesn't hear me when i exclaim my newfound excitement, doesn't care to listen most of the time. it's alright. i'm used to holding in tears eating delicious food. it's a redeeming point my parents have: they make good food. and it claws on just the right spot of Agony and Nostalgia. where did everything go wrong? i sit and eat the smallest portion i can humanly take without raising confusing glares from any of them. i eat.  
  



	3. homesick

yearning for a place you've never been to is fucking exhausting. not just any place. but The Place. a home of some sorts with a found family opening their arms to _come, come inside where it's warm and safe and we promise life will be a little easier. a tad bit better. we promise. we never break promises here. we love you._

anywhere but here. anyplace but this home built out of fear and ironic sheer luck.


End file.
